


sunlight has taken over the room

by crookedspoon



Series: tripping down that tightrope [1]
Category: DC Cinematic Universe, Nightwing (Comics), Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Domestic, Established Relationship, F/M, POV Dick Grayson, Post-Movie(s), Toast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 19:44:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12895359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: "What's that you're making anyway?" he asks. In front of her are the charred remains of what his mental reconstruction suggests must have been squares of white bread.





	sunlight has taken over the room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KathrynShadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathrynShadow/gifts).



> For the prompts "Harley Quinn/Dick Grayson, Sane & Healthy Relationships With No Abuse In Them" from the dceu kink meme, and inspired by prompt #41 from [pretty-bad-au-ideas](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/168129941815/prompt-41) and 5. “It’s not burnt. It’s slightly toasted.” from [prompt-bank](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/168159662975/domestic-otp-story-starters).

If there's one thing Dick doesn't lack, it's discipline. It would take something akin to a blizzard to stop him from his morning jog. It's cold enough for one, but he finds the chill is making him work twice as hard to combat it. The burning in his lungs is centering him, making him one with that place inside him where utter stillness resides.

He can go for hours in that state. He's able to take in his surroundings without letting his emotions get in the way. It helps that the temperature almost freezes the air particles in place so that his nose need not be offended at the exhaust fumes and the stench of rotting garbage in the alleyways that the mayor fails to have cleared away. Even cozier smells like the coffee and waffle scent from his favorite diner take no hold of him, the way it used to when he was still gaining a foothold in Blüdhaven. It's only two blocks from his apartment, that's one reason why it's so tempting, but he no longer needs to depend on the diner's intimate atmosphere to help him over the stark loneliness awaiting him in his own apartment.

These days he actually has reasons to take his breakfast at home, no matter how inviting the idea of a chat and a cherry pie at Madison's are. He ought to frequent it more, for old times' sake.

Dick is a social animal, always has been. He doesn't do well cooped up inside. He notices that the hard way every time he falls ill and Alfred isn't there to make him soup.

The memory startles laughter out of him as he unlocks the door to the apartment building he lives in. He's no longer a child in need of looking after. Still, it's nice not to have to make your own soup when you're achey and miserable.

He wonders how the old guy is doing as he slips the key into the lock. He should check up on him one of these days. Another item to put on the agenda.

He tiptoes inside as quietly as he can manage, minimal key jangling and door squeaking and all. Not because the sleeping beauty awaiting him would be cross if he woke her, but because she ought to catch all the shuteye that she can.

She's a nocturnal creature out of habit, just like him. And like him, her sleeping pattern is all over the place. Sometimes, she doesn't sleep at all, others times lightly, so that the slightest noise startles her awake. Again other times, not even a marching band at the bedside would be able to wake her.

He left her in one of those states when he went outside for his run. But it turns out he needn't have bothered to be quiet on his return. She's in the kitchen, dancing and humming along to the radio and his heart does a more complicated flip than he would ever be able to accomplish.

She has her hair twisted in two messy buns and she's wearing the t-shirt he had on to bed last night and which he'd left on the floor this morning. It's at least three sizes too big for her and exposes one of her shoulders – the one that's free of ink and therefore free of reminders of her past life and all the difficult parts of their relationship.

Harley yelps when he kisses the top of her shoulder and rounds on him with her butter knife. Years of practice have him reacting on instinct, deflecting the blade as if it could cut him and twisting her arm behind her. It may only be a butter knife, but she can still do plenty of damage with that.

"It's only me," he says, a bit sheepishly, as he releases her again. It wasn't his intention to upset her.

"I was a model citizen, Officer Grayson," she says and grinds herself back against him. Damn. His whole body twitches. "You're free to pat me down for hidden weapons."

"As if you need to carry any." She herself is one, but he's learned to disarm her simply by hugging her. Which is what he's doing now. It's a heroic and not at all selfish act. He loves to simply breathe her in.

She yelps again when he presses his slowly thawing lips to her skin again, and this time at least she's not attempting to poke his eye out. Which may be down to him restraining her arms, but it's a step up in any case.

"What's that you're making anyway?" he asks. In front of her are the charred remains of what his mental reconstruction suggests must have been squares of white bread. 

"Toast," she says simply and smiles back at him.

"It's burnt." His voice carries the bewilderment he feels. Can't she see that the toast is... well, _toast?_

"It's not burnt," she protests and elbows him in the side. "It's lightly toasted. At least according to the toaster setting. I don't know what happened."

"Oh, that. Yeah, don't trust what that old thing is telling you. It has only two settings: not toasted at all and burnt beyond recognition."

"I see. Why do you keep in around then?"

"Let's just say I have a fondness for broken things," he says with a grin as he's stripping off his gloves and undoing the zipper of his jacket. "There's just something about them..."

"Why do I get the feeling you're talking about me?" She twists around in the small space between him and the kitchen counter and narrows her eyes at him.

"I don't know, doctor." He shrugs, but his grin doesn't let up. "You tell me."

"Hmm..." she muses and taps her chin playfully. "Attachment issues, holding on to the past, inability to let go... Should I go on?"

Okay, maybe he shouldn't have started this. If Harley is one thing, it's perceptive. She hasn't lost that edge to insanity. And since coming back from the brink and beyond, she's become more observant. It's a little scary sometimes. "I think you've made your point. Although there's one important thing you missed."

"Oh yeah, what's that?"

"Money."

"Do you want to tell me that Mr. Rich Kid didn't have the necessary funds to buy a new toaster?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you."

Harley just gives him a flat stare in response before she bursts out laughing.

"Bruce—my father—jeez, I still don't know what to call him—I didn't want any of his money when I set off to do my own thing. And I didn't have anything to my own name, so I had to save where I could."

She's still laughing when she says, "But now you could afford a new toaster."

"I could."

"My point still stands: inability to let go."

"Hey now, I'm a busy guy." He doesn't appreciate her smug look at all. "As long as my things don't break, I don't need to bother replacing them."

"I have an idea: let's go toaster shopping together." She beams and throws her arms around his neck. "Shops are open 24/7 these days so we can do it while you're not on patrol... or on patrol."

"But it's still working." His bewilderment must be palpable by now.

"You said it yourself. It's either not toasting at all or nuking whatever you stick down its gullet. I say that calls for a new toaster."

"I don't know... I'm kinda used to this one."

She rolls her eyes. "I swear, sometimes you're as bad as Ivy."

"Is that supposed to be an insult?" Dick teases. "Because as far as I remember, you said you loved that woman."

Harley's face scrunches up in that funny way it has when she's out of arguments. "I love your dumb ass, too."

Dick can't suppress the stupid grin that's blooming on his face. "That's what a guy likes to hear before he's off to do his duty."

Harley grins, teeth entirely too sharp for this hour. "That's what a _girl_ likes to hear," she purrs as she hops up onto the kitchen counter and wraps her legs around his hips. Her fingers steal into his hair and the beanie he was wearing to shield his ears from the cold falls to the floor.

"That's not what I meant, Harley." 

"Don't you want me?" she asks, in part confused and in part—dare he say offended?

"I do, darling," he says and kisses her forehead. "Very much so. But I don't have to make love to you to, you know, _love_ you."

"Oh," she says and stares through him, as though that concept is still so new she has to process it through all its different channels. It's not like he's been trying to show her for weeks and months.

"Yeah."

"But I want you to make love to me?"

God, why is she such a temptress? Why is it so hard to say no to her? But Dick is nothing if not disciplined. Batman's internalized scowl makes sure of it. "Can you wait until tonight? I'm gonna be late for work."

Harley scrunches up her face again, but this time it has nothing funny about it. "I'm beginning to resent the law now that I have to share you with it."

"Come on now," he says and strokes her chin she has turned away from him. "You haven't been on the best terms with the law before we even knew each other, so don't put this on me."

"Okay, fine," she acquiesces, but her mood remains pretend-sour. "I'm just jealous, I guess."

"Don't worry your pretty head about it," he says and sports his best casanova grin, the one that had women from all over the world go weak-kneed at the sight of it. "Justice and you are the only two ladies in my life."

Harley seems unfazed by it. She's been brainwashed by charmers – or one charmer in particular – for too long, but has managed to break their spell on her. Damn. It's one of the (many) reasons he likes her. She is not fooled by him and the playboy exterior he has inherited from Bruce.

"Guess I shouldn't be surprised," Harley says, fingers still carding through his hair. He should have known better than to let this distract him. "Do you like every girl that bares her breasts to you? Is that all it takes?"

"Harley! I'm offended you think that. You should know it's the inner values that count."

"So you don't think I'm pretty?"

"I can't win with you, can I?"

"Trying not to let you." She grins.

Dick shakes his head fondly. It's cute how she's trying to draw him out, as if he himself hadn't already been out there, with all his defenses stripped down for her.

"I have to get ready now," he says and sets her back down to the floor.

"You don't want your breakfast?"

He eyes the black squares she'd been buttering when he came in. They'd be cold by now and since they'd already been murdered the first time she put them in the toaster, they wouldn't survive another heating up.

"If you scrape off some of that charcoal, I'll consider it. Otherwise I'm good with cereal."

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "In November" by Lisel Mueller.
> 
> I, uh, basically have a whole backstory that wasn't mentioned here to keep the angst out of it. I'm hoping to explore more of it next year in the tightrope series, so stay tuned! 
> 
> Tumblr post for reblogging convenience can be found [here](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/168129941815/prompt-41). I'm also @crookedteaspoon at tumblr and twitter.


End file.
